Early the next morning we paid a visit to the market. Novgorod was a center for merchants of many lands and its marketplace rang with the cries of Greeks, Arabs, Persians, Jews, Saxons, Swedes, Danes, and Finns in addition to its native Rus and Slavs.
Here a couple of chained bears were prodded into dancing; and there a grinning, slobbering idiot rolled himself on the ground, twisting his arms and legs into knots while the crowd threw coins; elsewhere, a mountebank juggled torches while another swallowed fire. And through the midst of it wound a noisy procession of minstrels—a dwarf blowing on a trumpet, a youth beating a drum, and others rattling tambourines, all blending their music with the cries of the vendors at their stalls.
After taking in these marvels and along the way purchasing some decent clothes for the two of us, I decided to look up Stavko. I intended, sooner or later, to tell him the truth: that he and Ragnvald should cease to consider me their spy. But in the meantime there was much that I was curious about, and he struck me as a man who knew many useful things.
Inquiring for him, we were told that the establishment of Stavko Ulanovich, Slave-dealer to the Gentry, could be found on Ilya Street as you mounted Slavno Hill, directly behind the marketplace. While we made our way there, I explained to Einar how the slave-dealer had invited me to his tent in Aldeigjuborg the day before I fell ill, given me Ragnvald’s gold to spy on Harald, and told me to meet him again in Novgorod.
His shop-house was the typical two-storied building of logs with a shingled roof. Einar and I mounted the steps to the second floor, where the beautiful Egyptian girl, Jumayah—the same one who had summoned me to his tent in Aldeigjuborg—answered our knock.
Inside, the steamy lamp-lit interior heavy with perfume, the low table, thick rugs, and heaps of silken cushions, and the naked women lying upon them, reproduced exactly the scene of our first meeting, as I had just finished describing it to Einar.
We found Stavko, on his knees in a corner of the room, grunting in the act of love with one of his properties—this being, as he had told me, his invariable morning regimen. We waited politely for him to finish.
He gave the girl’s behind an affectionate pat, pulled up his voluminous trousers, buttoned his caftan and advanced on us with a smile on his round, pug-nosed face. His bulging eyes gleamed, his greasy braids, weighted with lead balls, swung as he moved. He planted wet, thick-lipped kisses on my cheeks.
“Odd Tangle-Hair! My friend! I am delighted to see you well again—though, look at you—how thin!” He pinched my cheeks and arms with those fingers so educated in the feel of flesh.
I introduced Einar, who had begun to make noises in his chest like a sea-lion at mating time as his one eye scanned Stavko’ smerchandise.
“Yarilo, god of war, has dealt harshly with you, eh, old fellow?” said Stavko to him, noticing the Jomsviking’s loss of leg, hand, and eye.
To this, Einar replied by lifting the skirt of his tunic, beneath which unmistakable life stirred, while he remarked that he wasn’t so badly off for parts as many men his age.
The slaver, taking this as an invitation to show us his “dears,” clapped his hands, and the women approached and stood before us, their eyes empty and their arms at their sides. There wasn’t even one that I remembered seeing just a month ago. Business, it seemed, was thriving, and the tender Stavko must be suffering a broken heart a day as he took reluctant leave of each cherished pet.
“Look your fill, sirs,” cried he, chuckling and salivating with his words as he habitually did. “You, at least, have gold to spend, friend skald, heh?”—with a wink and a nudge at me.
“Not much, I fear, and my friend has none.” (I had given nearly all the gold to my crew to refit the Viper.)
“Ah? So? In that case it would be my pleasure to extend you credit.”
There was no one I wanted less to be indebted to. And, to tell the truth, my recent illness had left me still somewhat enfeebled where my spear was concerned. Just as well, I thought, in dealing with this slippery fish, not to be too distracted by his wares.
“Kind of you to offer, Stavko Ulanovich,” I replied. “As soon as I have silver from my lord Harald I promise to spend it here.”
Einar shot me an anguished look at the prospect of so long a wait, but Stavko passed it off with a shrug, and purred: “Well, how else can I help you then? Have you seen anything yet of our city?”
“Exactly my purpose in calling on you.”
“Excellent! Then I am at your service. Pyotr, see my ladies behave, and if we have customer, sell him Zabava if you can—I’ll go as low as a quarter grivna for her.” These words were addressed to a sullen young man whom Stavko introduced as his nephew.
As we went out the door, the slaver said to me in a low voice: “I had hoped to see you alone, my friend, as we have certain private matters to discuss, yes?”
“I have no secrets from Einar Tree-Foot.”
“No, no, it can wait. Now,”—he stood on the top step and threw his arms wide—“permit me to introduce you to Gospodin Velikiy Novgorod, as we Rus call him: ‘My Lord Novgorod the Great’! Oldest, freest, handsomest of all cities in Gardariki! Ten thousand live here and every single one quick with fists. We are excitable people! Here, walk with me to top of hill; from there you can see everything.”
We mounted the crowded street, passing beneath the eaves of narrow shop-houses that overhung it on either side. Here, in the artisan’s quarter, every trade imaginable was practiced, from locksmiths to leather tanners, and from shipwrights to smelters: each craft claiming a certain length of street front for itself, and marking it, like a dog his tree, with its own peculiar smell. I noticed at once an unusual aspect of the town: there were no wheeled carts or wagons to be seen at all, but only sledges, whose runners glided easily over the polished planks of the pavement.
From the top of the hill the city lay spread out below us, divided in halves by the Volkhov with its single bridge. On the farther bank rose the citadel, dominated by the wooden spires of Saint Sophia. To the left of it, said Stavko, was the poorest part of town; it was called Lyudin End. “Lyudi,” he explained, “means Black People—black with dirt of honest toil, and, though they are most despised of men, we know that Christ loves them best. Now, look to right and see Nerev End, where boyars—nobles—have town houses.”
“But why,” I asked, “does Yaroslav keep his dvor here on the low ground by the marketplace instead of on the citadel or among the mansions of his boyars?”
“Answer to this question not so simple.” He frowned in thought. “Come, we stroll down through town while we talk.”
We descended the hill by a different way, which brought us to an open area on the farther side of Yaroslav’s dvor. This also was a market square; it was called Gotland Court and was the center of Swedish commerce in the city. Here the Swedes had their guild hall and warehouse. Here, too, within shouting distance of the palace, were the five long barracks that housed Yaroslav’s druzhina.
To spare you more of Stavko’s wretched Norse, I will cast his story in my own words, as follows:
Some years ago, Yaroslav had rebelled against his father, Grand Prince Vladimir of Kiev, and had recruited Swedish mercenaries for his army. Unfortunately, he found them hard to control. Citizens were beaten and robbed, wives and daughters raped. Matters led finally to an uprising led by the boyars. In a day of bloody fighting, most of the Swedes were massacred.
Unfortunately for Yaroslav, it was just then that a message reached him from one of his sisters in Kiev, informing him that their father had died and that one of his half-brothers had seized power in the city and was bent on butchering all of his rivals. To defend himself from this new threat, Yaroslav had no choice but to plead with the boyars and people to uphold his side in this new civil war. Amazingly, they did. Of course, in return, the boyars exacted a high price—nothing less than a blanket exemption from the laws of the city. The prince had no choice but to pay it.
After this, Yaroslav built himself a new dvor and chose its site precisely in order to be near the Swedish community, or what remained of it after the massacre. He was still determined to rely no more than he could help on those arrogant and unruly nobles. He turned again to Sweden and now sued for the hand of Ingigerd, the daughter of the king. In her retinue came her cousin Ragnvald and hundreds of fighting men. With their help, Yaroslav defeated his half-brother.
In the years since, the prince had come to rely more and more on his Swedish mercenaries (although whether they were his, as opposed to hers, that is, Ingigerd’s, was a tricky question). The boyars, for their part, had kept the peace, but were still resentful. Like nobles everywhere, they lived for glory and booty, but the prince made little use of them, preferring to rely on his Swedes instead. Even more than this, the boyars resented being dictated to by Ingigerd.
At this point in our conversation, we crossed the bridge and mounted the slope of the citadel. There we found ourselves gazing up at the cathedral.
“Ah,” sighed Stavko, crossing himself. “Is beautiful, yes? Built all of oak without a single nail and no tool but axe.”
We were not alone as we stood before the great carved doors. Lying on the ground all around us was a pitiful collection of paralytics, drunkards, lepers, and lunatics, all clad in filthy rags.
“Christ cares for those whom the world casts off,” the slave-dealer piously murmured. “Here they find refuge; is a good thing, yes?”
“A very good thing,” I agreed.
But Einar, who had been uncommonly quiet all this while, snorted with disgust: “Are there no honest thieves among this vermin? Did you see Einar Tree-Foot lying about on the doorstep of Svantevit’s temple begging alms? You did not! Einar Tree-Foot stole what he wanted like a man! Piss on the lot of ’em, say I!” (He seemed to have forgotten that if I and my crew hadn’t wandered down a certain dark alley in Jumne Town, he would have been torn to pieces by a mob of angry Wends, who caught him with his hand in Svantevit’s offering bowl.)
These unfortunates had now begun to creep, crawl, and stagger towards us, uttering piteous cries and reaching out their bony hands for alms. Stavko, with an expression of alarm, hurried us away. At that moment, we heard the loud pealing of a bell coming from the market side across the river. Up and down the street people stopped and turned toward the sound, while in the houses shutters were thrown open and heads thrust out. From all sides people poured into the street and soon a river of them was streaming toward the bridge.
“Assembly bell,” said Stavko, betraying some annoyance. “No doubt a prank. Bell rope is there for any drunken fool to pull who wants to make spectacle of himself. Ignore it, friends, let us continue walk.”
I gave Einar a questioning look. What weren’t we supposed to see?
From up ahead of us, with a jingle of harness and the clatter of hoofs on the paving logs, there came in sight a troop of horsemen, forcing their way through the mob and making likewise for the bridge. At their head rode a handsome man whose black beard rippled over his scarlet-clad breast. Stavko, like everyone else, snatched off his hat and bowed low as the figure passed. If I hadn’t known otherwise, I would have taken him for the prince himself.
“Thinks himself nearly as great,” said Stavko under his breath. “Dyuk Osipovich, Mayor of Novgorod. He leads boyar faction; is no friend of ours.”
“In that case, friend Stavko, we must certainly follow him.”
The crowd bore us along while Einar, hanging on my shoulder, struck out viciously with his crutch at every hapless Novgorodets who jostled us. Once across the bridge we found ourselves back near the spot from which Einar and I had set out that morning: in the market next to the palace, or, more precisely, in a long cleared area between the two, big enough to hold many hundreds of people.
“The assembly meets on Yaroslav’s doorstep?”
“Prince and his loyal subjects prefer it so,” Stavko answered coolly. “Troublemakers may say what they please, but they know who listens.”
“Is there so much rebellious talk, then?”
“We are turbulent people,” he shrugged. “If prince is bad, into mud with him!’ is common saying of ours.”
“Is that likely to happen now?”
“Oh no, is all just talk and grumbling. With Yaroslav and druzhina away, boyars think to frighten Princess Ingigerd. How little they know her spirit! She will stamp foot—they will run away like mouses!”
I had for some time been puzzled by this attitude of his. “Stavko Ulanovich, you yourself are not Swedish—”
“Me? I am Rus! As pure-blooded as any.”
“Then how is it you’re so warm for Ingigerd and her countrymen?”
“Business,” he shrugged. “Swedish merchants encourage trade and we all profit.” True enough, and yet I couldn’t escape the feeling that there was something else, some more personal reason that he was not telling me—perhaps because he didn’t know it himself. Was it possible that this man who dealt in women’s flesh—bought and sold, owned and used it as he pleased—was it possible that he longed to believe in a woman stronger than all those others, stronger, in fact, than himself? A woman who could own and command him? Was the slave-master offering the princess his humble adoration?
We listened for a time, while Dyuk the Mayor and other boyars took turns haranguing the crowd—mostly in Slavonic, in which I could only detect occasionally the name of Ingigerd. But at every mention, it was greeted with groans and catcalls from all over the audience. This, said Stavko, was merely their hired claque. Looking about me, I wasn’t so sure.
Leaning close to my ear, he interpreted: “They are proposing law to limit number of Swedes and other Northmen in city, levy head tax on them, forbid them to own land.”
“What will happen if it passes?”
“Impossible! Prince, too, has friends among boyars, and princess knows very well how to use them.”
Suddenly and without warning fists began to fly all around us and we found ourselves pushed and pummeled on every side at once. “Dear me,” said Stavko, “it seems we’re voting already.” We were alternately yanked apart and dashed together again in the heaving crowd. “—forgot to explain—vote with fists—turbulent people—bridge!”
It was that very place towards which the crowd carried us. First Stavko and then Einar disappeared in separate swirling battles. Now I was on the bridge, and giving as good as I got.
Great One-Eyed Odin! It felt fine after so many weeks of sickness, idleness, fretting, and regretting—just to hit a face! Life pounded in my veins. It was great fun until some troll lifted me off my feet with one hand around my neck and the other on my belt, held me for a moment over his head, and lightly tossed me.
I bobbed in the freezing river, gasping for breath, while scores of other bodies plummeted all around, sending up geysers of water.
Then with a wave and a cry of thanks to all My Lord Novgorod’s peculiar citizens, I struck out for the shore.